


The Liar's Reprise

by VespidaeQueen



Series: The Gravity Well [13]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VespidaeQueen/pseuds/VespidaeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell another lie, until love turns sour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Liar's Reprise

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after _Justice_ in act 3.

She does not wait for him to follow when she leaves his clinic - and she does not look back until she reaches the door to her estate cellars - and while it is only a few feet from the doors that guard his clinic, it feels like miles. When she does, when she takes in the sight of no one at all following her, she feels equal part relieved and hurt.

The cellar door clicks shut behind her.

There is a heavy ache in Hawke’s heart. Something painful curls within her breast, sharp and hot and coiled. She feels wrong, like the world has shifted quickly and left her behind. Nothing feels right.

The lowest room of the cellars has been Anders’ workroom for the past three years; there are tables cluttered with parchment and used inkwells, jars of ingredients that she’s picked up for him from various apothecaries, jars of things he’s found for himself. Hawke looks at it, thinks of _drakestone_ and _sela petrae_. Thinks of lies.

Her heart aches.

She walks past his desk, leaves it all behind. Part of her thinks to bar the door to the cellar, but she doesn’t.

The walk up the stairs is long and slow and _hard_. She feels weighed down. There is a seeping hot-cold of realization, of hurt, of embarrassment, of _so many things_ , all twisted up in her chest. It is like the day she realized that Anders would one day die alone in the Deep Roads, eaten up by the taint in his blood. It’s the realization of losing him all over again, only this time she feels like that loss is so close. She’s losing him, but not to the taint. Not to darkspawn, or to templars. She’s losing him to something she can’t even name, everything hidden behind lies.

Hawke sheds her armor as she steps into the main floor of the estate. A gauntlet lies forgotten on the floor as she makes her way up to her room.

She is glad that she does not meet anyone on her way through the house. She does not think that she could stand to talk to anyone.

It is the door to her room that she locks, but when she turns she realizes her mistake in coming here.

Three years. _Three years_ , and this room is not _hers_. It is _theirs_ , bits of their lives strewn all over it. More of his papers, mixed in among hers on the desk. His good pair of boots - the ones he insisted he didn’t need, as his old ones hadn’t worn out yet - pushed under the bed. Feathers - _always_ feathers - stuck in odd places. On the mantle above the fireplace, there is a vase of dried flowers he had given her, in those early days of their relationship, with a smile and a kiss and an attempt at romantic gestures.

Even ignoring it all and crossing to her bed does not help. Everything smells of him.

She wants to weep.

Lies upon lies, mixed with words of love. This is not what she wanted.

Ismat sheds the last of her armor, until she is clad only in a light shift. Then, heart heavy, she curls up on the bed and pulls the coverlet over her.

She does not want to think of what just happened. Of the lies, of the Chantry, of whatever it is that Anders is planning. She does not want to think of him attempting to give the only thing he has of his mother away. She does not want to think of what that means.

Ismat Hawke, however, is not one to weep. Her eyes stay dry, though they ache. She _wants_ to cry. For love, for lies, for something she can’t understand.

She can’t.

Is it true though, she wonders. Does all her talk of supporting mages end at just that - at talk? Is she simply one of the few mages who has built themselves up high enough to enjoy the comforts of life? Is she content, now that she sits at the top, a noble and a mage who the Templars do not dare to touch?

Once, Anders had told her she was the sort of person the mages needed. The sort to lead them. The sort to show how mages can live free from the Circle, how free of Templar influence, they are not pushed to the same measures that those who live in daily fear are.

She wonders if all he spoke were lies.

She thinks _love is not enough_ and it hurts.

There is a part of Hawke that wants so desperately. For love, for romance, for a life like what she had imagined as a child. Her father’s stories, spun into her own idea of love. A dashing apostate to run away with.

Well, she’s found a dashing apostate. She loves him.

And he lies.

And not just him. Because it’s never just him. It’s him, and Justice, and Vengeance, and she loves all. She loves both Anders and Justice, and she had thought - she had _hoped_ \- that the past three years had - she had _wished_ -

_Love is not enough._

But she’s done so much. So much for the cause of mages. Hasn’t she? Hasn’t she protected and aided and spoken out and done what she can? She thinks of Feynriel and Ella and even Emile de Launcet. Free, because of her. She’s _helped_. She has.

But what of Olivia? What of Grace? What of Evelina and Huon and each and every mage she’s seen fall to demons and blood magi, backed into corners, nothing else to turn to. What of those who were never given a choice? What of Elsa? What of _Karl_?

Hawke curls under the blanket, hands pressed against her chest. She doesn’t want to think.

_What else can she do?_

There is a knock on the door. Soft. Hesitant. She hears, through thick wood, one word.

“Love?”

 _Go away_. She says nothing.

“Love, please. I -”

She gets up. The coverlet, pulled tight around her shoulders, drags along the floor. The steps to the door feel like an age.

The door is locked, and she leaves it that way.

“What do you want,” she says. The words feel hollow. It is barely a question.

“I want to talk,” Anders says from the other side of the door. “Please, love, let me in.”

 _Love_.

Hawke steps forward. She feels so tired and worn. What is one more loss, though? She can take one more. She can always take just one more.

“We already talked,” she tells him. “It was an enjoyable talk, wasn’t it? So many delightful turns of phrase. Why, I never knew that lies made for such good conversation!”

For a long moment, there is only silence from past the door.

“That isn’t funny,” he says. His words are quiet; she can barely hear them.

“But it is, though, that’s the thing. It’s so funny, I could just _laugh_. Why don’t you tell me another lie, Anders? Just one more. I could use a good laugh, couldn’t you?”

“Please,” he says. Just that.

“What about Justice?” She feels like her voice should be rising. It isn’t. Hawke speaks only loud enough to be heard through the door. “Does _he_ feel like making me laugh, too? Has he decided to test out his own sense of humor?”

There is a strangled sound from beyond the door. “Justice doesn’t lie,” he says, and _that_ she truly does laugh at.

“So it’s just you, then.” Her laugh catches in her throat. “Thank you for clearing that up. I was beginning to worry.”

“ _Please_ , love, let me in.”

The harsh laughter dies in her throat, and she tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No.”

“Please. I _love_ you. You have to know that.”

“Stop. Stop saying that.” She presses one hand flat against the wood of the door. She wants to shake him. “Do not throw that at me now. Don’t think that will fix what you did. Don’t, not when you know full well that you just took _everything_ you know of me and used it to - to do _what?_ To manipulate me into something that you won’t even tell me of? You _knew_ it would work. So don’t you say you love me like you think it will fix this.”

There’s more silence, then something hits the door. Not hard, just a soft thud, then the sound of fabric against wood. He’s sat down before the door, she thinks, leaned against it, then slid down. When he speaks, his voice comes from lower.

“I had to. You’ll understand soon, even if you don’t now. You have to trust me.”

“Why should I? I trusted you, and look what you did with it.” She crouches down, so they at the same level. The blanket slips to the ground as she presses both hands against the door. “You lied, and you did it with things that you know I want. I want you and Justice safe, whether that is together or apart - you used that. You know - you bloody _knew_ that you could guilt me into it, you knew just how to do it. And you know what you did? You cheapened _everything._ Everything that I have ever done because I love you. Everything that _I_ have done for mages. You took all these things and you used them as a weapon against me.” She rests her head against the door. There is a pressure behind her eyes, and she shuts them tight. “I hope that whatever you did, whatever you are planning to do - I hope it is worth it.”

Through the door, she can hear him draw in a harsh breath. The ache in her heart and the pressure behind her eyes grows worse. She sits, her shoulder knocking against the door.

“Ismat?” he says, and his voice sounds choked. Hawke draws in a breath that shakes. “I need you to know that your support...it has meant the world to me.”

“I know.” And she does. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I...know,” Anders echos. “I wish that it could.”

Hawke draws into herself, pulls her knees up to her chest as she rests in the corner where the wall and the door meet. For a long time, there is silence. She breathes in, and the breathes catch in her lungs, but she doesn’t shed any tears. She imagines him sitting there, on the other side of the door, in his new black coat with the shiny black feathers that she’d seen him saving for the past few months. It is something she had pestered him about, to get a new coat. His old one had been falling to piece. Strange that, now, he’s finally made the change.

As the silence stretches on, she think that, maybe, she should say something more. Assure herself that he is still there.

She doesn’t.

Eventually, her eyes shut. She sleeps, sitting on the floor with her head rested against the hard wood of the door.

 


End file.
